Do Your (Christmas Shopping) Research
by Telemain's Daughter
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Sherlock Holmes is faced with a mystery he can't solve: what to give his friends for the holidays. Luckily for him, Irene Adler is on the case. But when all the shopping is over, what will Irene and Sherlock give each other? Adlock, fluff and banter


_A/N: This was written as part of an eight-piece Hanukkah gift to my sister, and since I'm just such a nice, share-y person, now y'all get to read it, too. (It was a different story for each night, so check my page if you want to find more from me as I upload them—they're all from different fandoms.) Largely, it was written because I wanted to write about Irene :) I'm using the headcanons of various Internet Friends that Irene is Jewish, and from a lower-income East End family originally._

 _(I haven't watched Series 4 AT ALL, so this is guaranteed to be spoiler free!)_

 _Enjoy, and let me know what you think! If convenient, please review. If inconvenient, review anyway..._

 _All rights belong to the creators and copyright holders._

* * *

 **John.** John. John John John. So strange now that one looks at it written out. Derived from the Scandinavian, counterparts in—focus. John. What to buy for John.

Come back to later.

 **Mary.** Perfume? Clare de Lune perfume? Possibly a sore subject. Why would a mercenary have a signature scent? Fear responses linked to olfactory—focus. Must remember to ask Mary about perfume at dinner next Sunday. Tactfully. Must remember to ask Molly how to ask things tactfully.

Come back to later.

 **Shirley.** Come back to later.

 **Irene Adler.** Why are you even on this list? GO AWAY

 **Mycroft.** Cake-of-the-Month Club. One year subscription. Done.

 **Lestrade.** … … … … ? … … … … ? … … … … ?

 **Irene.** She knows what people want, yes? Practically her business model. She could help.

(What does Irene want?)

 **SH:** If you're not dead, let's have dinner.

 **IA:** Thought you'd never ask, pretty boy. See you at 7.

 **SH:** Where?

 **IA:** I'll find you.

She found him at a tiny deli where they didn't mind if you smoked. Sherlock was under strict orders from four different doctors (including John) not to smoke anymore after being shot, but no one said anything about not inhaling it secondhand.

"What do you know about Christmas?" he asked as she sat down.

"I don't celebrate it, but I understand the concept. Is this really where we're eating?"

"We're not eating."

"Skipping right to dessert, are we?"

"I need presents."

"I can work with that." She ripped open a sugar packet delicately with her teeth and downed the contents.

"For other people. I need Christmas presents for other people. Tonight."

Irene stared at him, a second sugar packet between her teeth. She removed it, made an exaggerated survey of the deli, and raised a brow. "You do know it's Christmas Eve?"

"That's why I need them tonight."

"Are you hiring my services for your entire gift list? Because I'm fairly certain your brother's not interested."

"I already have Mycroft's present."

"Oh, well, ahead of the game then, aren't you." She leaned back in the booth and crossed her arms. "So tell me, Mr. I-Know-Everyone's-Innermost-Thought, why do you need _my_ help?"

Sherlock hummed and stared at a point past Irene's right ear. "People assume I do know their every thought. Consequently, they don't tell me things."

"That might not be the only reason they don't tell you things, pretty boy."

" _Consequently,_ I have very little idea what to give my... give people, for Christmas." He pulled out his mobile and began scrolling through it. "I could give them what I think they need, but-"

"Those types of presents are rarely appreciated," Irene finished.

"John certainly needs a gym membership, he never lost that extra seven pounds and since the baby he's added at least eight more-"

"Yes, alright."

"Mary and I keep telling him—what?"

Irene reached across the table and touched his wrist. "Yes, I will help you. If only to spare your friends from your horrible brand of meddling."

"You liked my meddling last time."

"Did I ever properly thank you?" She smiled, with far too many teeth.

"Shopping. Shopping, now." Sherlock popped out of the booth and headed for the door.

Irene made no move to follow. "Slight flaw in this plan."

Sherlock paused. "There are no flaws."

"I don't know your friends."

"Research. You're a student of character, you research all your clients before they arrive so you can more efficiently exploit their weaknesses and thus ensure they pay you exorbitant amounts of money. Research." He held up his mobile, displaying a Facebook page for an awkwardly smiling young woman. "Molly Hooper. Research. Then shopping."

Irene made a show of heaving herself out of the booth. "At some point in this evening you _are_ feeding me."

"Hurry up, Adler."

* * *

In the cab, Irene stole Sherlock's mobile and took over scrolling through Molly's Facebook. "Online profiles will only take you so far. I think we need a spot of snooping. Where is Miss Molly tonight?"

"St. Bart's. The lab."

"Alone?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course."

Irene shook her head. "Alone in a lab on Christmas Eve. Are you sure she doesn't need my services?"

"Not interested."

"Pity." She handed the mobile back and knocked on the partition. "Just here, love, thanks."

The lock on Molly's fourth floor walk-up had been changed since Sherlock last picked it. It took him eighteen seconds longer, and in that time, a hatchet-faced young man with a great quantity of beard appeared on the landing.

"Hallo," he said cheerfully, juggling a grocery sack and fishing for his keys. "Friends of Moll's?"

Irene leaned dramatically against the wall to block the man's view of Sherlock. "Christmas surprise," she said.

"Well that's right lovely, but fair warning, she don't usually come home until the twenty-seventh, late. Goes on a science tear, I reckon. I always feeds her cat."

"How neighborly. You must have a key then, Mr. …?"

"Oh, it's just Tim, miss. And I does have a key, did you need it? Your friend seems to be having a spot of trouble there—"

"I am not," Sherlock growled. The door snapped open and he stalked inside.

Irene smiled. "Lovely to meet you, Tim. We were never here, okay?"

"Right-o, miss."

"Oh, one more thing. Do you have a fire extinguisher?"

"Yeah. Did you need it?"

"No, no." She put on her innocent smile. "Fire safety checks. Carry on."

Sherlock paced the eat-in kitchen, stepping absently but accurately around a roving orange cat.

"Not helping," he said, pressing two fingers to his temples. "She needs-"

"Naughty," Irene chided, hoisting herself onto the counter. "We're role-playing. Tonight you're the data collector and I'm the perception filter. So go on. Impress me."

Sherlock halted and closed his eyes. "Low-end furniture, high-end electronics. Cat. Great quantities of knitted items, no yarn. Spoiled food in the fridge, three days old. Five voice mails from random men over a period of four weeks, saved for possible use later, or as trophies." He looked up. "Enjoys sex, science, knitting but doesn't know how, likes the cat better than the knitting and sex better than the cat, works through the holidays to avoid feelings of rejection."

"Knitting class," Irene said promptly. "Buy it online and send the certificate to her printer. Borrow your lighter?"

Sherlock handed it to her wordlessly, both eyes on his mobile screen. Irene scanned the walls of the kitchen, and when she heard the printer start up, she stood on the counter, walked over to where the smoke alarm perched by the ceiling, and held the lighter's flame directly underneath it.

The alarm screamed awake.

She swung herself down by Sherlock's shoulder, grabbed his hand and towed him to the fire escape. He shoved her out first and they clattered down the iron steps in tandem. Irene grabbed his hand again and they ran for blocks, twisting through the back alleys and splashing through icy puddles, breathless with something approaching laughter.

They slowed near Piccadilly and emerged onto the main street. Sherlock unceremoniously dropped her hand and shoved both of his in his pockets.

"Who's next?" Irene asked breezily.

"Lestrade."

"And who's this Lestrade to you, then? Boyfriend, enemy..."

"Acquaintance. John says I should call him a colleague, but that's inaccurate. Colleague implies peer."

"How is dear John these days? Besides married and fat."

"Busy. Lestrade?"

"Jumper. Topshop whimsy jumper."

"You didn't even think about it."

"That's the point. He's someone you work with, it would unnerve him to know you put thought into a gift. The fact you are giving him anything at all is what counts. Also..." She gestured at the Topshop store they'd paused in front of. "Extended holiday hours." She cocked her head to the side. "Possibly one of the personalized ones. Text me his name so I spell it right."

"I'm coming with you."

"You are not coming into Topshop with me, pretty boy. You'll want to try on all the scarves." She pointed to a bench nearby. "Sit. Stay. Good boy."

He bared his teeth at her.

"Close enough."

* * *

The upper halls of Baker Street station were mostly deserted, the crush of Christmas drunks only reaching to the first floor. Sherlock strode purposefully in through Lestrade's open door and plonked the Topshop carrier bag on his desk.

"If there's a severed head in there, I'm arresting you now and letting you stew until Boxing Day," Lestrade said, without looking up from his computer.

"No, there's a-"

"Because I have enough to deal with this evening. Mel's already going to kill me for having worked Christmas Eve at all, and it's looking like I'll have to come in tomorrow as well, so unless you're here to help-" Lestrade looked up at last. He squinted at Sherlock, rubbed his eyes, and sighed. "Why am I telling you anything. Alright, what is it?"

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds. Then he reached over the desk and picked up the sliding stack of case files, flipping through them at speed.

"Husband did it. Husband. Looks like the husband but actually the boyfriend. Delivery person, get their real name, they did it. Producer's wife. Gardener, obvious. Accident."

Irene started laughing silently in the doorway.

"Business partner, already left the country. Teenage son, long-lost, look at the adoption records. Pet snake, check the air ducts." He handed the stack of files back into Lestrade's stunned hands. "Don't think you can arrest a snake."

Lestrade looked from the case files to Sherlock and back again. "You..."

"I'm sure all the arrests can wait until Boxing Day. Or Donovan can make them."

"Thanks a mil, Sherlock!" Donovan shouted from outside.

Lestrade opened and shut his mouth a few more times, then he came around the desk and grabbed Sherlock in a fierce hug.

"Please stop doing this," Sherlock said, but he didn't pull away.

"Thank you!" Lestrade let go and snatched up his coat and scarf. "Best Christmas gift ever!" He hurried out of the office. "You've the next day off, too, Donovan! I'm sure all the arrests can wait until Boxing Day!"

Sherlock smoothed down his coat and picked up the carrier bag. Donovan glared at him on principle. He broke into a sudden smile and handed her the bag. "Happy Christmas."

"Oi!" Donovan called after Sherlock and Irene's retreating backs. "What do I need with an ugly jumper what says 'Gerald' on it?"

Irene dashed back and handed her a slip of paper. "Store credit, darling."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson always left the area door unlocked, no matter how many times her boys told her not to. When John lived with Sherlock, he used to sneak down at night and lock it after she went to bed. Sometimes he still drove over and did it.

The lock only took Sherlock twelve seconds.

"What do you know about your Mrs. Hudson?" Irene whispered, easing the door to behind them.

"Far too much," Sherlock muttered. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. "And I'm not supposed to tell you most of it."

"Fascinating. I'll expect a hint later" She poked through the stack of mail on the kitchen table. She handed him a flyer. "Order her up one of these."

 _Queen for a Day!_ the flyer cheered. _Relax like Royalty while our Trained Staff turns your home into a Palace!_ A tiny cartoon corgi in a crown perched at a tea table, waving.

"And something to do while the Trained Staff is here," Irene added, nicking a biscuit out of a tin. "How about-"

"Got it." Sherlock showed her his mobile, open to a burlesque dancing class.

Irene raised a brow. "I'd like my hint now, please."

"YouTube."

Ten minutes later, in the cab, Irene dissolved into giggles and clutched her mobile to her chest. "Good on you, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

Sherlock had the cab let them out on the green. Irene scrambled out after him, tossing money and a smile at the driver. She caught him up in the middle, by the pond. He was staring at his mobile screen, the blue glow illuminating his face from beneath.

She glanced around. "You know, I like a sward as much as the next girl..."

"We're done." Sherlock dismissed her.

"We're not done."

"Shopping's over. Thanks for all your help. Bye now."

"We're not done," Irene insisted. "There's still John, and Mary, and..." Her voice approached him like a stick to a toad. "Your parents."

"All done. Bye now." He started striding away.

"Sherlock-" Her tall heels sank into the ground when she walked. She ended up quick-stepping after Sherlock on her stocking toes, shoes in hand. "Are they dead?"

"Of course they're not dead." Sherlock frowned at his screen instead of her. "They're in Rio. Early Christmas present, courtesy of Mycroft."

"So no happy Christmas at the family farm this year?" Sherlock didn't answer, and Irene's perfectly sculpted brows shot up.

"So that's it, with the gifts and the cheer-fest. I never twigged you for a Secret Santa type. You're trying to make Christmas."

"... No."

"Liar."

"Ditto."

"Touché." She slouched herself over his arm to see his phone. He was on a ticketing site. "What do the Holmes' Sr. do when they're at home?"

"Watch telly, I presume. Bake. Maths." He tried to shake her off, unsuccessfully. "They _like_ going on trips and to shows. Mycroft always gets them show tickets, and then refuses to go with them. I usually get them a trip. A cruise. They like cruises." His voice, always deep, sounded like it was trying to disappear down his trachea.

"And this time Mycroft sent them to Rio." Irene tried to catch his eyes, unsuccessfully. "It's not a contest."

"Of course it is."

"Then get them show tickets. And go with them." She reached over his arm to flick her finger at the screen, making it scroll wildly. "That new show, with the hot Americans and the rapping."

"Mmm. Mum never did shut up about Aaron Tviet..."

"And now you'll be giving her two solid hours of Leslie Odom, Jr."

Sherlock scrolled further. "Special price, if I buy four tickets there's a country weekend, too. France."

"It's not a contest, Sherlock."

He clicked through to buy without showing her his cart. "Done." He looked down. "Why aren't you wearing any shoes?"

"Because you knocked my socks off?"

He tipped his head to the side. "Needs work."

"I need _food._ "

"Put your shoes back on. You can eat when we're done."

"Promises, promises..."

He walked away toward the edge of the green. This time he waited for her to catch up.

* * *

They bickered their way down a curving street of listless offices and shuttered churches. Irene hung on his arm, wincing and mincing in her tall shoes, and Sherlock let her.

"Escape rooms," she suggested. She'd been suggesting gifts for John Watson for the past two blocks. Sherlock had shot down every one of them. "They're all the rage now. Locked in a room, clues to find, unrealistic time limits... just a regular Tuesday for John Watson."

Sherlock scoffed. "I could figure those out in three seconds. Blindfolded."

"Yes, yes, Boy Genius. We know. But John might have fun. Might take him, oh, five minutes. And then he'd have something to crow at you about for once."

"So you're saying we don't do it together." Sherlock frowned.

"Correct."

"Oh."

"Or you could take him on a romantic getaway cruise to the Poconos, but I think Mary'd have something to say to that."

"'How long will you be gone? Why not another week?' most likely."

"He's your best friend," Irene said softly, straightening up. "It doesn't matter what you get him."

"You said that about Lestrade."

Irene smiled, distantly, sadly. "You don't need to get anybody a gift, pretty boy. Trust me."

He cut his eyes to her in the dim. "Escape room it is, then," he said, over-bright. "On to Mary."

"Mary's easy." Irene hijacked the mobile. "Cooking club. Mary's shit at cooking, and she wants to impress John one of these nights."

"Pretty sure she does that every night."

"In-ap-pro-pri-ate!" Irene singsonged.

"Look who's talking. How do you know Mary? How do I not know that you know Mary?"

Irene snorted. "Because your best friend's wife tells you everything."

"She _does._ "

"You're adorable." She handed the mobile back. "I'm part of her sordid past. And it's high time she made some new friends. Women with husbands and wives and children and mortgages."

"Boring."

"You'd be surprised. Are we done, then?"

"One more. Shirley."

" _Shirley._ A secret lover? Or another of your scrappy pensioner mates?"

"Careful, your East End is showing again. She's beautiful, young, and blonde, and she has stunning blue eyes."

"Jealous."

"And she drools when she's happy."

"Less jealous..."

He tipped the mobile to show her. His lock screen was a close-up of a cheerfully drooling baby in a polka dot onesie. She was gumming a plastic skull.

Irene could not stop laughing.

"I don't see what's so amusing..." Sherlock kept saying.

She steered them, still laughing, into a Tesco's car park. "I know the perfect thing. Come on."

Inside, she hunted the aisles, returning triumphant with a fistful of Christmas crackers. "They're vintage, she'll love them, and John can get more adorable pictures of her in paper crowns and all that. Here. Now are we done?"

"Now you may eat." Sherlock exchanged the crackers for a packet of waffle crisps and a roll of sugar doughnuts.

"This is what you're feeding me? No wonder you don't have a girlfriend." But she ate the crisps anyway.

They purchased the crackers and food from a half-asleep clerk in elf ears. At the last minute, Sherlock added something else to the pile, then swept it all into his coat pockets. He walked with Irene across the street, nicking crisps out of her bag as they went. He deposited her against the wall of a cemetery and crouched down facing the street, ripping at some plastic bag he pulled from his pocket.

He lined up nine tea lights on the kerb.

Irene stopped eating. "What are you doing?"

"Sit, woman."

Irene sat. Sherlock handed her his lighter. He looked her in the eye, really truly in the eye, for the first time that evening. Irene shivered, and looked away.

" _Chag sameach Chanukah,_ Irene Adler."

"How did you...?"

"When will people stop asking that."

She leaned over a pecked his cheek. "When you stop surprising us, pretty boy." She flicked the lighter, and stared at the flame. "I don't think I remember any of the blessings..." She lit the candles anyway, fast and all in a row, then scooted back to lean against the cemetery wall. Sherlock joined her, and ate the rest of the crisps.

They sat together, shoulders almost touching, a communal heap of dark wool coats, for two hours as the candles burned out one by one. Irene's hair was falling down. Every so often, Sherlock would reach up and remove a pin that had drifted into his hair, and drop it into her lap. They split the doughnuts, and sprinkled themselves in sugar crumbs. Someone tossed a fiver their way around midnight. "Thanks, mate!" Sherlock called after them in his best Cockney. Irene kept the money.

When the last of the candles burned out after one o'clock, Irene stood up and brushed herself off, scattering pins and crumbs. Sherlock gathered up the warm, empty candle tins and shoved all their rubbish in the crisp packet.

Irene hesitated, and Sherlock spoke into the space she left. "Off to whatever castle you call home these days?"

She smiled an unreadable smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

She walked away.

"Yes," said Sherlock, but there was no one left to hear him.

* * *

 **Janine:** Fuck you, Sherl. Love from the Riviera. XO

 **Unknown Number (group text):** Christmas Breakfast Party Sherlock's! BYOF or else.

* * *

She didn't know what she was thinking. Her hair had fallen down completely; it was leaking into her coat collar. She was sure there was a run in her stocking, probably multiple runs. She'd tried to go home (such as it was, now), and ended up pacing, then leaving again to pace the streets. She was sure she had lost her mind.

She knocked on the door.

John answered, wearing a green sweater and a baby. The baby drooled happily and tugged at her paper crown. John gave Irene a thorough once-over. "Are you going to keep your pants on?"

"I might do."

He stepped aside to let her in. "So gracious," she murmured as she passed.

Mary swooped up to hug her. "Irene, darling! Happy Hanukkah, lovely."

Irene regarded the full-swing party over Mary's shoulder. Sgt. Donovan traded war stories with Molly Hooper on the couch, while a cat-hair-coated Tim regarded Molly with patent wonder. Lestrade cooed over Shirley, and John and Mycroft made uncomfortable chitchat in the kitchen doorway. Mrs. Hudson sat serenely in John's chair, eating biscuits and waiting her turn for the baby.

"It's all so mundane," Irene said, pulling back. "And yet..."

Mary smiled. "And yet."

Sherlock ambled out of the kitchen with a mug of tea, minutes later, to find Irene draped across his seat. "Out of my chair, woman."

"Make me."

He braced a foot on the arm of the club chair and tipped it. Irene unfolded herself onto the rug. Sherlock sat down with perfect grace, taking a innocent sip of tea. He had to hold the mug up out of the way in a hurry when Irene re-draped herself, this time over him.

"No."

" _Yes._ " She snuggled closer. Sherlock stiffened, arms in the air. "Calm down, pretty boy."

"Don't you two look lovely," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "You know, I was just reading an article in the _Mail_ about people who are 'bi-sexual.' They fancy everybody. Isn't that lovely?" She smiled more.

Irene smiled back. "Did someone spike her tea?" she asked in an undertone.

"She spikes it herself." Sherlock lowered his arms. The right one rested against her back, warily.

Mrs. Hudson anointed Irene with a green paper crown. "There you are, dear." She picked up her mug and toddled into the kitchen.

Irene tried to get more comfortable. "Stop shifting," Sherlock said, drinking tea over her head. "I'm not above tipping you out again."

"You like me, really."

"I tolerate you."

"Close enough."

They watched the party revolve around them—though mostly the party revolved around Shirley, which Shirley was perfectly happy with. Donovan showed off her new Topshop scarf. Mycroft waltzed Mrs. Hudson around to music from Molly's mobile, and Mary caught John for a snog in the kitchen. Sherlock covered Irene's eyes. She laughed, and batted his hand away. He settled it at her waist again, curving his arm around her. She tipped her head back to smile at him, and he winked, actually winked at her. She laughed again.

"I don't know where all these people came from," he said, with manufactured confusion. "I woke up this morning and here they all were."

"Funny old world, isn't it." She snuggled deeper, and his arm tightened around her. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
